Monday, July 25, 2016

Judy Grahn

From old friend and former Placitas resident (a  time ago) Judy Grahn. And please see Judy Grahn.

Hi Larry, I spent a lot of time this month crying over the police murders of innocent black people, as well as the murders of Dallas police. Also reeling from the RNC misogyny expressed toward Hillary Clinton, and my guess is some of that wrath is infused with racist hysteria. News for me personally—finishing up another collection of poems for Red Hen Press due out next year, and working on stories that chase after spirit in nature, ways nature reaches out to us and we use her creatures to make meanings.  Very happy that two friends from high school! came to visit me for my birthday. A 60 plus year friendship, amazing. Recently someone asked me why I write poetry given that it doesn’t make any money and takes so much effort. I know the answer: because it saves my life (really) and also keeps me curious and optimistic. Love to you and Lenore, please keep on singing your song.
Judy Grahn, Ph.D.
Poet, Writer, Professor at Large

Here's a collage of images and a couple poems from ye olde Oriental Blue Streak in 1968, a mimeographed poetry magazine from duende press. The Centipede's Poem and In Larry's Room are 2 of the poems she generously contributed. Thank you, Judy. The top left photo is by Lynda Koolish from Crossing Cards. The top med photo was taken in Placitas where she was living . . . . book covers from books Judy sent me . . .

Max Finstein and others, loved Judy's poems in this issue . . . love, larry

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Don McIver


in the Rio Grande gorge, cottonwoods conspired with Russian Olives
pulled as much water out of the river before it merges with the Red.
Those pesky humans dumped chemicals,
mine tailings,
nitrate laden water,
agricultural runoff and top soil in their river.
They stopped it.
The trees conspired to change the flow of the river,
stored it up in new lakes,
had a highway of deer teamsters
carry the water down to the cottonwoods and Russian Olives
in small quantities and bottles
and not let anyone else have it.

in the depths of Elephant Butte, bass conspired with trout.
They tired of Jet Skis, tow boats,
water skiers and tubers,
top water lures and crank bait,
casual swimmers, three day weekend barbeques, 
and drunks.
The fish nibbled toes,
dragged innocent children down to the depths,
stuffed and mounted
them on water made walls.

in the Rio Grande Bosque, cranes conspired with ducks.
They turned on dogs, 
horseback riders, and joggers.
The cranes ignored the grain that BLM rangers left behind,
posted memos and trail signs,
organized field trips,
and erected educational walks for viewing:
bird watchers,
and the elderly.

in El Paso, Texas and New Mexico water managers conspired to take more of the Rio water away from human farmers, pueblo communities, and the desert. If the courts can mediate a settlement, Albuquerque can sprawl even more; El Paso can grow even larger; and the natural communities and habitats that depend on the Rio can fend
for themselves.

Deeds are written; titles notarized for water, a naturally occurring chemical compound.

Don McIver

"Resting after bagging Mt. Wheeler 
(New Mexico's tallest peak)."

Don is a former member of the ABQ slam team, a host/producer of KUNM’s Spoken Word Hour, the author of The Noisy Pen, and editor of A Bigger Boat: The Unlikely Success of the Albuquerque Poetry Slam Scene. He’s performed all over the United States, produced, curated, and hosted poetry events big and small including the 2005 National Poetry Slam, and been published in numerous magazines and anthologies.  He's a teacher by trade at Central NewMexico Community College, where he also manages the tutoring center. For more information on Don, please visit his writing blog, Confessions a Human Nerve Ending.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Laurie Macrae

Laurie "grew up in Albuquerque, spent six formative years in the Bay Area during the sixties, and returned to New Mexico in 1969. She has been an activist all her life and a poet, periodically, since her teens, when she was mentored by Tuli Kupferberg and other Beat poets of the San Francisco scene.

She has spent almost 30 years as a librarian, mostly in NM but for 6 1/2 years in San Diego where she retired to pursue mental health activism. She writes, swims, and does battle with the behavioral health system, which is at best inadequate and at worst abandoning the population it should serve."

California Dream

Awake, a boat,
Sinew stretched
Between the hollows
of the bolstered bed

Grains of sand sift
in the sheets
The slings of sleep so recently adrift
Warmed by friction, ignite

The same quarrel
with each wave:
To sail into the deep 
Where ancient hunger
and dread collide

Where a swell,
plunderer of senses,
Seduces each synapse 
with undertow allure

And a beach
Benignly beckons
As Pacific turbulence dresses
For evening in
a flash of green

Or raise a clouded eye to dawn 
Again the damp sea air, the clutch 
Of my own arms 
Against the bluster of the day

Warped limbs planted
on a shifting deck 
Sucked from beneath me
By the rip of time, I stagger 
But I stand

Laurie Macrae
     Nov. 10, 2014 San Diego

Mementos! (Hope you don't mind my adding this, Laurie.)

This was choice, a lot of fun to do, thanks
to the Taos Poetry Circus friends.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

John Macker

Hi Larry & thanks.
Guest edited latest Malpais Review w/14 Colorado poets: "there is nothing so beautiful as the sound of dreaming across borders" & wrote an essay on Venice West legend Tony Scibella. Also Herrera, abeyta, Camp, Stablein, Tani Arness, Kell Robertson, Simon Ortiz, etc etc. Nice issue. Also participating in panel discussion on Southwestern author Frank Waters with John Nizalowski & Alexander Blackburn up at the Harwood in Taos on Wed. Aug. 3rd. 7 p.m. Going to write an essay on Todd Moore for last Malpais. Busy working & worrying about the state of the world. Here's a poem about some things I've been thinking about.


                    −for Joe Somoza
On any other Sunday if the kitchen
light had a voice it would sing
like Mavis Staples
all the birds would be
politely silenced by the poet
who sits in his
Las Cruces garden on mornings
like this for
twenty-two years
writing poems
in the shade of a tall tree
so he wouldn’t later on
lose his mind.

The rooster would crow dawn up
from polished black to soft blue
full-throated throughout the neighborhood
many of the children would go
politely and without incident to mass
my prayer flags would still have nine lives.
On any other Sunday,
nobody would rise haunted with the
ghost sickness or deny the Coyote within.

Anybody would believe the full moon
or at least the ghost of moon
as yellow as yarrow
as it traveled across the shores of our eyes
or June with its rampaging fahrenheits.
Each tree is an indeterminate amount of
time rooted deep
I think, therefore I think I’m an act of faith
unfathomable morning
I’m walking through cottonwood snow.

John Macker
thanks for all you do, Larry. I very much like your latest books. Bravo.

well maybe life as a poet is worthwhile after all - thank you John

Geoffrey Young


Is there a gun more dangerous
than the one whose owner
defends his god? Look
where we are now, worlds poisoned

by belief. How far is it to the horizon,
to the Sun going down, to Thou Shalt
Not? Grab something of value
from the burning house!

Be smart, be fearless, be focused
on present necessity, with liberty
and yogurt for all. Here’s my vote
for the equitable distribution of goods.

One pie, one family, one Earth, one knife, etc.
What’s a stack of cheese if we lose a planet?

 Geoffrey Young

i run a contemporary art gallery  (for the last 25 yrs). Geoffrey Young Gallery
i make my leetle books and do drawings, but only show other people's work.
my next show, Hanging Paper, is a group show.
will use the new colored pencil drawings in my next book (of short prose).

no title yet . . .

geoffrey young

geoffrey young

thank you, Geoff . . . 

Miriam Sagan

(and a photograph by Isabel Winson-Sagan) Miriam writes:

I'm blogging at Miriam's Well  which is always looking for work tied in to our interests. And I interview poets who have published a book. Email for blog submissions or interview questions is The current theme is "Letter To My Younger Self."

Right now I'm at Herekeke on Lama Mountain, working with my daughter Isabel Winson-Sagan on an ongoing collaboration of text and image. Here is a poem.

The tattooed girl
draws the mountain
surprisingly soft-lined
fences and trees,
as a child
obsessed by rivers,
black and red ants
crawl over the bark
of an old piƱon
traveling through gullies and canyons,
suminagashi lines
photograph by Isabel Winson-Sagan
on paper
pulled once
through ink floating on water
wet fractal
of a topo map
some place real yet imagined
right now
I might not even
Lama Mountain

Miriam Sagan

Katrina K Guarascio

How to be in love with a ghost

Sleep in his old t-shirt
savoring the scent trapped inside thread and collar.

Leave the smell of hair in pillow.

Mimic the sound of shutting doors
slapping goodbye.

Play a melody of afternoon thunderstorms
and chase the scent of rain
through the house.

Flick ash to pavement,
bare feet to sidewalk,
leave a trail from the rubble
that built your favorite mythology.

Refuse to release him
from mind and motion,
bite lower lip to keep words
from falling out.

Find a boy at the bar with the same shade of eyes
and a smile kind enough to resurrect the past.
Sing all the words to Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” in his ear
in a slow dance to last call.

Stare into eyes a little too long,
listen to stories with too much care thirsty for truths.

Tell him he reminds you of someone you used to know.

Then no longer hide bruises.
Show him the peaceful side of your nature,
the sleepless side of your soul.

Walk across the broken glass of beer bottles
to nudge him awake,
replace missing pages about last night
over a breakfast where you
laugh to loud to be in public,
still drunk from one another.

When he leaves
thank him for wearing the skin of memory
and gifting the kindness of patience.
Do not kiss him goodbye.

Reclaim evening habits,
curled in tattered wool sweater,
beer and cigarette,
tangled in all the parts of what once was.

Watch in solitude as the full moon creeps across the sky
and breathe in all that has come to pass.

Katrina Guarascio

Hi Larry,
I wish I was up to more poetry and writing wise. Right now, I am keeping myself busy updating my blog: and working on my novel. I've had few features this year but am hopeful to get out to more poetry readings in the future. I am the current editor of The Sunday Poem on the Duke City Fix and would love some submissions (hint! hint!) Send submissions to

The Sunday Poem is an ongoing feature of Duke City Fix (I did a round of editing for it myself) and Katrina is the current editor. Here's a list of poems.

Friday, July 1, 2016

Hello and Love to All

Hal Johnson asked me and here I am for the month of July in 2016 and you might call this
LARRY AND FRIENDS since I just emailed for poems and any comment about "what you're up to" and most people sent in poems. To me this is further revelation that increasingly all poetry is local. Traditionally way back there were national entities of poetry, national poets even, but now there are entities within the national - poetry reading and publishing confabs in pockets entities just about everywhere. The populace of poets growing all around broken up into localities of us bards, bardic yawps everyplace. The locality I live and breathe in is Placitas Albuquerque Las Cruces Santa Fe Taos El Paso mainly but more often it's just plain ole Albuquerque-Placitas. The Facebook and email/website reaches are constantly extending and over time dear friends are in their own localities wherever increasingly.

So the poets here are some of the poets informed by the longstanding living locality plus the reachings out as everyone experiences, that growth - online, Facebook, music and "document" sites.

So welcome to all and thank you for sending poems and news and as long as my time allows (constantly being demanded on) please continue to send on here if you are indeed in some way a friend, a true acquaintance, surely you're welcome and I'll do my best.

For information about me it is embarrassingly all too available with more coming as I continue my project HEAR making much of my poetry work finally available.  And I can't help but recommend my 3 new books from Beatlick Press. And thank you, Hal.

Rudolfo Anaya

Years ago Rudy and Patricia Anaya, along with David Johnson, Tony Mares, Jim Fisher and others, launched the Rio Grande Writer's Association which boosted poetry and all creative writing across the state and the SW . . . Voices of the Rio Grande came out of its first conference and it remains the groundbreaking anthology for us in these parts . . . thank you, Rudy . . . and thanks for sending this . . .

The Pulse of Life

It was the twelfth of June
            another hot and humid Florida night.
In Orlando young people gathered at the
            Pulse Club, enjoying camaraderie, the
            dance floor pulsating with life,
            dancers moving to syncopated music,
            Latin rhythms, good will embraces,
            laughter, friendships, plans for
            tomorrow, flashing smiles releasing
            stress in silent motions.
Then the pulse of life ended.
            A man on fire came from a dark,
            twisted place, methodically spraying
            death, massacring our LGBT
            dancers who fell like cut flowers.
Pulses died in 49 bloodied wrists,
            blood pressures plunged to zero,
            juices of life that would never
            flow into the future stained
            the sad dance floor.
Shock spread across the country,
            across the world, enough grief
            to last many lifetimes.  Lost lives
            cannot be replaced.
Orlando pulled together, offering
            condolences and help.  From here
            we sent flor y canto, oraciones,
            flowers and poems, prayers.
            Left bereaved on this senseless
            plain, we wondered who killed the
            Golden Rule, Love Your Neighbor.
We mourn our fallen comrades, our
            gay sisters and brothers, and after
            grieving we march to tear down the
            barricades of hate, bigotry,
            prejudices.  We march to tear down
            walls that separate.

                                                ©2016 Rudolfo Anaya


Hi, Larry, good to hear from you. Yes you may use my poem in TRUCK . . . . New, just out, my new novel, THE SORROWS OF YOUNG ALFONSO, reviewed by David Stenburg in [The Albuquerque] Journal.  . . . Keep well my friend, Rudy. . . Keep well my friend,  Rudy

Jules Nyquist

Gun Crazy

            Gun Crazy is a film noir movie from 1950 directed by Joseph H. Lewis.

Does it start with boys and bb guns
Aiming at anything that moves
Including the dog?
Movie theater madness
Bonnie & Clyde

The Judge asks the boy
Why did you do it?

I don’t know, he says.
My sister says shooting is the only thing I’m good at.
It’s what I want to do
When I grow up.

I feel good when I shoot
Like I’m somebody.

Jules Nyquist


white yucca flowers
irreversible time
at Trinity Site

Jules Nyquist is the founder of Jules Poetry Playhouse, LLC in Albuquerque, NM where she teaches poetry classes and invites visiting poets to read.